“Dearest Mother-in-law, you’re cordially invited to our divorce!”
When James swung open the door of his flat in Manchester, Margaret stepped inside, her voice trembling with concern.
“Are you alone?”
“Well, yes…” James replied, puzzled.
“Where’s Olivia?! Has she already left? Is it over?” Margaret’s hands shook as she gripped her handbag.
“Mum, what are you on about?” James shrugged, baffled by her questions.
“So, I’m too late…” Margaret sighed deeply, shuffling into the living room and perching on the edge of the sofa, as if afraid to take up space. “I should’ve come sooner.”
“Mum, what’s going on?” James grew uneasy, a knot tightening in his chest.
“Are you seriously telling me everything’s fine?!” She gave him a sharp look, as though he were hiding something dreadful.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” He frowned, lost.
“James, explain this nonsense to me—now!” Margaret rummaged in her bag, pulled out a card with a wilted rose on it, and thrust it at him. “Found this in my postbox this morning. An invitation to your divorce!”
James took the card, scanning the neat handwriting: *”Dearest Mother-in-law, you’re cordially invited to our divorce! Yours, Olivia.”* He froze, staring in disbelief.
“Mum, you actually think this is real?”
“So *I* wrote it myself, did I?!” She threw her hands up, voice quivering with outrage.
“No, but—Olivia? Really?”
“Who’s Olivia?”
“Your daughter-in-law?”
“James, stop dodging! Out with it! Are you two splitting up? You’ve barely been married a year! Where is she?”
“Mum, relax, everything’s fine. Olivia’s at work… probably. This morning was normal. Must be a joke. Probably about the soup…”
“A *joke*? Over *soup*?!” Margaret gaped at him as if he’d lost his mind. “You’re telling me soup justifies this?”
“Well, yeah. She made it for the first time last night. I said… it wasn’t great. Not like yours.”
“And then?” She narrowed her eyes, sensing disaster.
“She got mad, threatened to bin it. Said she wouldn’t cook again till I finished it. So I joked I’d file for divorce if she stopped. Just banter…”
“*Banter*? You mentioned *divorce* as *banter*?!” Margaret shot up from the sofa, eyes blazing.
“I said I was joking, but she was already upset…”
“Honestly, just like your father!” She marched to the kitchen. “Where’s this soup? Fetch it!”
“Why?” James trailed after her, confused.
“We’re eating it. Understood?”
“Mum, it’s rubbish…”
“I’ll show you *rubbish*! Kitchen, now!”
Margaret located the pot, slammed it onto the hob, and turned on the gas.
“Come here!” Her tone brooked no argument.
“Mum, really—” James faltered under her glare.
“And fetch your house keys!”
“What for?” He stiffened.
“Just do it!”
Defeated, James handed them over. She pocketed them swiftly.
“Sit!” She ladled soup into two bowls.
She took the first spoonful, eyes locked on him. Reluctantly, he followed.
“You call this rubbish?” Margaret arched a brow, scraping her bowl clean. “Perfectly decent!”
“Yours is better…” He poked at his portion.
“I’ve had thirty years’ practice! Your wife’s still learning! Eat up before it’s cold!”
Silence hung thick, broken only by clinking spoons. When James finished, he reached out.
“Can I have my keys now?”
“Not yet.” She smirked. “Homework first.”
“What homework?”
“That book there—*Family Favourites: From Kitchen to Table*. Your father and I are coming Sunday. You’ll cook us *three* dishes from it.”
“*Me*?!” James choked. “Olivia’s the wife!”
“Oh no, dear. She can chop onions. The rest is *your* job. And I’ll praise *her* soup. As for you—threatening *divorce*! If you want to lecture like your dad and me, marry for twenty years *first*!”
“Right…” He scowled at his lap.
“No arguments! Slack off, and your father will have your hide. You know how he loves his dinner…”
Margaret stood, fixing him with one last stern look—motherly resolve blazing. Beneath it, though, turmoil churned: how to shield this young marriage from foolish mistakes? How to teach him love wasn’t just banter, but savouring each other—even when the soup was a tad too salty?
